


Music Box

by coconutcluster



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: metaphors BABEY, post-POF/Redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: On the corner of Roman’s dresser, hidden from sight by clutter and an ever-changing assortment of knick knacks, was a music box.
Kudos: 38





	Music Box

On the corner of Roman’s dresser, hidden from sight by clutter and an ever-changing assortment of knick knacks, was a music box. 

It was a little thing, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, small enough to stay tucked away behind mirrors or or picture frames or stacks of makeup, and it was simple, made of a plain, rich wood and lacking the golden accents that defined the rest of his bedroom. It seemed made to blend in, despite everything about Roman that did just the opposite. 

He wasn’t sure, really, where it came from. He couldn’t remember ever making it, and he was certain he didn’t remember any of the others giving it to him, and yet he couldn’t remember _not_ having it. He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t looked over and seen its edges peeking out from behind the mess on his dresser. Despite the strangeness of it all, there was a comforting familiarity to its existence, like the world could turn upside down and the music box would remain in its place, just for him.

Things were changing. He was changing, whether he liked it or not- whether he _understood_ it or not. Everything around and about him was shifting. But the music box sat in its corner still. 

He didn’t know the song it played. When it played, when it plucked its little notes and let them dance around the room, the name of the song danced with them, right at the edge of his memory, but never near enough to hand him the words. Sometimes he wound it up and just laid in bed, closing his eyes and letting the notes drift through his head and tell their story, nameless as they were. They had nothing to prove to him; the song didn’t need a title to play, and it didn’t owe him one just because he wanted to know. He could appreciate that, performing just for the sake of it. Just for yourself. He’d like to try it one day. 

The song - whatever it was called, if it even had a name in the first place - was twinkly, and floating, and it felt like how stars look in the night sky; Roman had gotten the urge to dance to it more than once, to pull someone into a waltz around his room and let the music guide their steps. But that would mean telling them about the music box, and the thought of revealing it to the others made him want to sit against his door and dig his heels into the ground and keep them away at all costs. He knew, somehow, with some deep, unfounded certainty, that they would criticize it - the music box was delicate, and he was anything but, brash and brazen in his pride. So it stayed hidden. 

It was a self-indulgent treasure for when he was tired beyond belief; when his facade was cracked a little too much; when his pride was stricken and ego bruised. It was for the moments when he was alone and broken and letting the pieces rest before he painstakingly put them back together. 

Roman Sanders was not a hero. He wasn’t sure heroes even existed, and the uncertainty scared him, because what else had he been, then, in all the years leading up to this moment? If heroes didn’t exist - if the world was as grey and muddled as he was beginning to see it - then what did that make him? A protector? A villain? Delusional? 

Lost. It made him lost, and confused, and overwhelmed, and laying in bed and staring at the ceiling and hoping to find his way in a nameless melody. But the song couldn’t guide him. It couldn’t lead him by the hand to whatever he was searching for. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and listened again, and though the melody couldn’t guide him, he thought maybe it spoke. 

The melody told him it was alright, this way he was. The melody told him it’s okay to be lost for a little while. The melody reached out and held his face and met his eyes to tell him, change is confusing, and change is growth, and the fact that you’re confused now means you are _growing_. Let yourself be changed, and let yourself be confused, just for now. Let yourself grow. 

When he opened his eyes, he found his own hands at his face, and the music box fell silent. He let out a breath and sat up at last, feeling his heart beat in his chest against the buzzing quiet of his room; he shuffled to his dresser and stared at the little box on its corner. It was small against its surroundings, plain. It was a gentle little thing. Wiser than it let on. Maybe, he thought, staring at it and reveling in the familiarity such an unassuming thing could hold, it deserved more than hiding behind the clutter of his veneer. 

But… that was a change for another day. His pieces were scattered, and he would let himself rest before he faced with music box with more than a broken plea. 

He wound it up, and let the melody begin again.


End file.
